


Utterance

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, mentions of canon death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Noctis has been learning Galahdian.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the phrase prompt at [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aithilin): “Things you said that you’ll never forget.”

When he had gone to Libertus to learn the words, he almost expected to be teased. To have to stammer his way through a justification or explanation, or go to Pelna for some help (he went to Pelna anyway, in case Libertus had been fucking with him). Instead, while Nyx was running through the morning refreshers and showing off for new recruits, Libertus took him aside— into the quiet nooks of the Kingsglaive training yard. 

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“No, your highness,” Libertus smiled— he always smiled when he could, always reassured, always tried to clarify. While Nyx rushed into something, Noct had always found Libertus right there to get them back out of trouble; “it’s not something that comes up a lot in Galahd. It’s too personal.”

“Oh.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you going to teach me? Or not?”

“No wonder Nyx likes you.” Libertus had an arm around his shoulders, leading him deeper into the little nooks for privacy while Nyx terrified a handful of new recruits with Crowe.

When he first learnt the words from Libertus, he felt that they were heavy, foreign, on his tongue. That he couldn’t quite shape the phrase, the syllables right. Pelna had found them, caught on to what Noct was trying to learn, what little Galahdian phrase had apparently been missed between all of them in his education. And one that Nyx sure as hell wasn’t going to patiently teach without some prompting. 

Noctis practised. Once he had the sound, he just needed to find the rhythm. It was the technique Crowe had actually taught him. The beat and rhythm to Galahdian was important. The wrong emphasis on the wrong sound could mean a world of difference. It’s how Crowe taught him the difference between “fuck you” and “fuck me.” It’s how Nyx’s demeanour cracked from just being proud of his prince for being so studious, to laughing at the little blushes and glares every misspoken phrase earned him. 

But this was more important. This was something he didn’t want to drag out to the rest of the group. 

“Hey, hero,” there was no equivalent phrase between them yet. Nothing that they could mutter around pet names or teasing remarks. There was Nyx’s wolfish grin and exasperation. There was Noct’s sharp tongue and quick wit with it. But there had been nothing that was for them only. This, though, everyone who knew Noct knew that this was not something he would learn on a whim, and would certainly never repeat. And when he first put his practice to use, it was while he watched Nyx move around his small apartment; while he watched Nyx carefully redo some of his braids after a shower, towel tied tightly around his waist while Noct just admired; “I love you.”

He didn’t expect the reaction that he got. He didn’t expect the way Nyx’s eyes widened in surprise or the way his hands stopped moving. He didn’t expect Nyx to cross the distance between them so fast that he could have warped. He didn’t expect to be pinned back to the bed with a kiss more ferocious than they had shared before. 

“Where did you learn that?”

“I have my ways,” Noct grinned. Certainly pleased with the response. “I love you.”

Another kiss, and Nyx was on him; “I love you, too, Noct.”

Noctis knew that it was just for them. Just a small phrase in Galahdian that no one else would ever hear. But that Nyx would mutter to him every chance he had. 

When Insomnia fell, Noctis let the words die with it. He let the phrase— the inflection, the tone, the rhythm— die from his lips. 

It wasn’t until he returned to Insomina later to claim his birthright, to fulfil his duty, that he wrested a pair of kukris from the Psychomancer lurking at the ruins of the gate and he remembered the phrase. He knew those knives, knew where they were from. And while his friends stood guard for those few moments it took to compose himself, he pressed the flat of the Galahdian forged blade to his chest.

“I love you, hero.”

He thought that Nyx would approve of his knives being used to slit Ardyn’s throat.


End file.
